The following is from Alicia Kopf's novel, Brother in Ice. A hybrid of research notes on polar exploration and a fictionalized diary, the novel follows a young woman making sense of herself as an artist, daughter,and sister to an autistic brother. Alicia Kopf is a recipient of the GAC-DKV Prize for best young artist gallery exhibition, the Premi Documenta literary prize, and the Premi Llibreter awarded by booksellers.

Poles

First it was the tabular icebergs, which appeared floating in the local pool. Narwhals got in through a crack in the tiles at the bottom. In the chlorinated water, I squeezed a bit of whiteiceinmyhand,makingagameofsinkingitandletting it resurface. A dream. Later, at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, I saw icecaps in the blue tutus of Degas’sballerinas.

I began to study. I learned that “arctic” comes from the Greek word árktikos, “near the bear,” and “Antarctic,” from antárktikos, “the place with no bears,” but rather penguins. I learned that compasses are useless at the poles, rotational axes with shifting magnetic fields; north, the quintessential cardinalpoint,isactuallynotevenanentirelystationarypoint ofreference.Atthepoleseventhegroundmoves.Theearly-twentieth-centurypolarexplorersweremysticsinsearchof the Holy Grail. Joseph Conrad said that their aims were as pureastheairatthehighlatitudestheysurveyed.Butthose explorersweremorelikeregularfolksthanwethink—setting aside the fact that they risked their lives for a mission— because, as their journals show, they were also envious,and mademistakes,andtoldlies.Manyexplorersdiedtryingto get to regions others erroneously claimed to have reached. The controversy over who discovered the North Pole is a fascinating chapter in polar history; more than just improbable feats taking place at a vague location, it is the story of one man’s word againstanother’s.

I am also searching for something in my white, unheated iceberg studio. An imaginary point that is completely unknown—andtherefore absolutelymagnetic.Sometimes I lose my way;I’m-cold-it’s-late-still-waiting-on-a-paycheck.

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a) I returnhome.b) I return to the anchorage point, the word pols (poles) and its range of literal meanings inCatalan:

pols, el, n. masc: the steadiness of hand needed to carry out certain acts, such as writing or holding a weapon.

Andthen,whenyouswapthemasculinearticleforthefeminine one, you arrive at more meanings of the word, which veer off in an unlikely direction yet could possibly link to myresearch:

pols,la,n.fem:fine,drypowderconsistingoftinyparticles ofearthorwastematterlyingonthegroundoronsurfaces or carried in the air. Also, a type of snow: powdersnow.

Symzonia

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In the first few decades of the nineteenth century, Captain John Cleves Symmes defended the theory that the Earthhad twoholes—oneateitherend—thatwentrightthroughit.Like matryoshkadolls,heclaimed,theEarthhousedtheentrance tosevenworldsthatwerenestledinsideeachother.Enough sunlight came in through the holes to sustain some sort of life,somethingthatthecaptainaspiredtodemonstratewith complicatedcalculationsanddiagrams.Ifmancouldreachthe pole, he would have an entire inner universe withinreach.

This theory was a very fertile one for literature; from Symzonia,anovelbySymmesthatrecreatesanunderground world,toTheNarrativeofArthurGordonPymofNantucketby EdgarAllanPoe.ThoseworksinspiredAnAntarcticMysteryand JourneytotheCenteroftheEarthbyJulesVerne.Manypeople believed that seas of ice at the poles led to Symmes’s inner worlds, until the poles were finallyconquered.

“I learned that compasses are useless at the poles, rotational axes with shifting magnetic fields; north, the quintessential cardinalpoint,isactuallynotevenanentirelystationarypoint ofreference.Atthepoleseventhegroundmoves.”

It was Sir John Barrow, in the nineteenth century, who awakened interest in the Arctic when he went in searchof Sir John Franklin and the members of his expedition, who had disappeared trying to find the Northwest Passage. Followinghisexample,themoreambitiousnationsembarked on various expeditions to conquer the two most extreme points of the Earth, hidden behind the mystique of storms andice.

According to polar historian Fergus Fleming, the Arctic furorreachedsuchheightsthatitwasthesubjectofjokesin Europe and the United States. Was there a pole at the Pole? Wasitmadeofwood?Didithavestripeslikeabarber’spole? The Inuit called it the “GreatNail.”

The fact that the conquest of the North Pole entailed a group of individuals confronting the elements was incomprehensible to many. The strategic, economic, and scientific justifications were vague. Great Britain was hesitant, while other world powers had already decided that reaching the poles was a question of national glory.

One right turn and a hundred meters further back, my physical self rushes to make it in on time. Once there, after straighteningthepilesofpulloversandreorganizingtheitems on hangers, when there are no customers I amuse myselfby watching, through the store window, seconds in the lives of people passing on the street. Inside, my gaze stops on each of the images that fill the shelves. The first photograph is a portrait,onfoamboardbacking,ofacoupleinfrontofahorse. I imagine their real lives before and after the photograph. Themansmileswithatriumphantairbesidehisgirlfriend.

Theirpastel-coloredpoloshirtsareprominentinthescene. She doesn’t need money. She’ll marry animportantpharmaceutical executive,afriendofthefamily.Tenyearslatershehasfourchildren, she’sgainedweightandherhusbandischeatingonherwithayounger woman. She decides to go back to school,etc. The game requires avoidingclichés.SometimesI’mbetteratitthanothertimes. Thebrown-hairedguywithclassicalfeaturesisfromaBelgiansuburb, hewasdiscoveredbyanagentattwenty-one,workingbehindthebar atanightclub;nowheearnsmuchmorethanhe’deverdreamedof. Sometimesheisaskedtoescortladiesorgentlementoparties.He’ll berapedbyacastingdirector.Eventuallyhe’llbeadoptedbyabusinessmantwentyyearshissenior,whounexpectedlymakeshimhappy. I continue playing the game ofreverse-characters,from photo to photo, until my gaze lands on the cottonOxfordshirts in shades of blue. The customers whobuythemaren’tlike myfather.Myparentsdon’tcomeintothestore.Iwouldn’t either,I’dfeelself-conscious.IstartedworkingforthecompanyoneyearwrappingChristmasgiftsinitsdiscountstore andacoupleofmonthslaterIwastransferredtotheflagship store. The job offers more opportunity to let themindwanderthantherestaurantbusiness,whereIhadabosswhoyelled atmewhentherewerealotofcustomersandIdidn’trun mytailoffbringingoutthedishes.Totheleftofthecounter is the women’s clothing, more colorful and variedinshape andtexture.Themoreoriginalpieces,theonesIwouldbuy if I could afford them, rarely sell. Here people wanttobe cookie-cuttermembersofthehappyclub,filledwithfolks whogosailingorplaygolf;“Ifyouwanttobeoneofus,you mustbuyus,”thepoloplayerssewnontotheshirtswhisper in chorus. The owner ignores my scant enthusiasm for sales because of my skill at dressing mannequins. After the four-hour morning shift and the four-hour afternoon shift, when I get home I will wait for everyone to have their dinner so I can use the kitchen table (the one in my room is too small, inthediningroomtheTV’salwayson).Afterwipingitdown, Ilayoutmyart-theorybooks.Zeitgeist,Weltanschauung,words withtinyfootnotes.Afteralittlewhilemyeyelidsgrowheavy.

“She worked like a castaway on an iceberg island, withoutknowingwhereshewasheadedorhowmuchlonger she would be able to hold out.”

Opening up that first figurine by its narrow waist, the nextone appears. Its features, ten years later, are nowwell-defined:

I am teaching behind glass walls. Through them influential parents, foreign teachers, and businessmen worriedaboutthe future of their family businesses, observe me, all of them paying close attention to the quality of service in a privileged, hothouse environment. This sort of atmosphere is prevalent uptown where, from kindergarten age, languages and future technologies are spoon-fed at breakfast. In this setting, egos—endowed with applause and medals for even the slightest achievement and from the earliest age—generally grow up with a very well developed sense of personal pride concerning themselves, even though not always toward others.Because—Ithought—ifwechangedtherulesofthisgame andweallweredealtthesamecards,orifatleasttherewererulesthat evenedouttheunequaldistribution,iftheplayingfieldwereneutral; ifaffection,themosthighlyvaluedassetinexpensiveschools(where alltherestispaidforwithmoney)andalltheotherresourceswere available to everyone, perhaps then those who can’t play nowwould play better—she taught in various schools in less privileged areas, before finding a steady position atthatschool.Shehad seen a lot of talent wasted because it hadn’t found the appropriate conditions, talent which that country seemed to only recognize early in the case of soccer players. Teaching according to new methods based on teamwork and projects, she saw how creative studentsweresometimeshampered by group negotiations monopolized by more dominant or extrovertedstudents.Teamworkismisunderstood—Iconcluded afteratime—eachstudentshouldbeevaluatedbothfortheirability tocollaborateandfortheirindividualcontribution,whichismade possiblebythelivingdeadwhocomprisetheCanon;priorknowledge andtheindividual’scontributiondirectedattheContemporariesina never-endingconversation:thereadercollaborates;thegroupismade upofthereader,theauthorandauthor’sinfluencesthatallowedhim orhertocreatethework.Whatcanemergefromthatdialogueisalso forothers,perhapsnotnow,butmaybeinthefutureitcouldtakethe shapeofanartwork,ortheabilitytocommunicateinwriting,orthe developmentofacriticalsensibilitytowardyoursurroundings,an ability that fuels the oft-trumpeted“innovation.”

*

I thought about all that, kept quiet and did my job the bestI could in a competitive work environment because deep down, after some twisting to release it, figurine number three was stillme:

EmployeeXwho,asthebusinessownerhadaccuratelysensed, wouldn’t make problems when she was let go. Because“you musthavedonesomethingwrongifyou’rebeingpunished,” asMotherwouldsay;andbecause“youaren’tateamplayer,” as Father would say in English, who being unemployed was datingthethirdEnglishteacher...ThePlayer,theTeam,and thePunishment,therulesofthispre-establishedgame...The game in which the best card she had been dealt was oneshe herselfhaddrawnandcutout.Itwouldbebestforhertofocus on something she could put her faith in, even if that led her to an unknown place, while holding down a part-time job. Shefeltsafertherethanshehadworkingfortheeditor,who expectedhertogoouttodinnerwithhimafterthecommercial fairs, dinners that went on long and after which they had to head back to the hotel together. All that for eight hundred euros a month. So, she kept her job and, in her downtime, she poured a good deal of her energy into that place where Beauty, Truth, Play and Inventiveness should converge . . . Feeding this Project didn’t help her pay the bills, which her family reproached her for, and later she would give in and startafull-timegig.Whileworkingfull-time,theProjectstill called to her unceasingly; she would dedicate her nights, weekends, summers to it. Feeding it with the little time she had left meant renouncing other things in a feedback loop: inpartsheworkedontheProjectbecauseshefeltlonely,she felt lonely because she often shut herself in to work on the Project. It was the only complex way she had of expressing herself. She worked like a castaway on an iceberg island, withoutknowingwhereshewasheadedorhowmuchlonger she would be able to hold out. She had lost much of the determinationneededtoaspiretothatuncomfortableword, somewhatridiculousduetoitsextraordinarilywiderangeof meanings, from intellectual to starlet, meanings that often imply a life of partying and posturing, a life of improbable peaks and probable shipwrecks.

“Thesamewords, said over and over, lose their meaning. Reality dissolves. I can’texplainwhathashappened.Ihavegapsinmymemory.”

Shipwrecks where nobody, now that I’m an adult, is waiting to toss me a life vest.

The fourth figurine travels to the capital for her master’s, falls in love with a charismatic professor and, thanks to the sophistry of the disenchanted Marxist who, feeding this all-toocuriousfigurine’seagerness,managestoseduceherwith the full consent of the adult she has now become, in a cyclical story like the Nietzschean eternal return that he himself teaches her. She falls deeply in love with the melancholic professor—orwithhisrole,she’llneverbeentirelysure—as he teaches her first the theory and then the practice of the world; after some erectile problems, he abruptly says goodbye. He’s suddenly forgotten the feminist rhetoric, and the eloquence and tact he employed to seduce her andothers.

Whenyoutakeholdofadrowningperson’shandyourun theriskofbeingpulleddownbeneaththewaves;thesurvival instinct’s movement is violent. Once under the water, with the cold, the electricity that lights up and connects the big, brightcitythatisthebrainofatwenty-three-year-oldbeginsto dim; the ideas that flowed, multiplying andinterconnecting, freeze up. The refraction of that general blackout provokes a new opacity in the eyes, which had shone brightly upuntil then.Facialfeaturesgrowheavy.SixtimesadayIrepeatthe samespeechinfrontofdifferenttourists.Thesamewords, said over and over, lose their meaning. Reality dissolves. I can’texplainwhathashappened.Ihavegapsinmymemory. Thewatersurroundingmeslowlymakesitswayinside.Istart to swell. Where did the darkness that drew me to him come from?Isitafamiliardarkness?Imusthavedonesomethingbad, otherwisethiswouldn’tbehappeningtome.

*

The end of this sad, lonely period—the early twenties can be the loneliest time of your life—was when late-blooming acneandnearsightednessbadenoughforglassesunscrewed to reveal a figurine marked by thickeroutlines.

Thefifthfigurinebelievesthatbeinginvisibleisthegreatest power,notalwaysgettingwhatyouwant.Fiveextrakilosand shorthairwardoffcomplications;allthatwillsaveherproblemsduringthefouryearsshefocusesonstudyingtheartof tellingliesinordertotellthetruth.Thepoorgirlwhosestory is always told by others, who liked to read Bolaño, Franzen and Zweig, who admired Duras, Némirovsky andYourcenar, learnsthataninexpressiblestorycankillthepersonwholived throughit.Becausethosewhocannottelltheirownstories,or thosewhoaresilenced,arevictims.Thisnewvoicewillspeak withauthority,withfullknowledgeofwhathasbeencoming atherfromallsides.Becausereally she’d beenstupid,itwas stupid not to have taken advantage of what she had, for not realizing earlier that this world is brutal, that evil exists in people out of weakness and the thirst for power. Alongwith manipulation and gossip—the weapons of the weak—she couldhaveusedthefewadvantagesofhergender,resources she had been taught to believe were shameful and superficial. She’d been raised by a strict mother as if evil couldonly emerge from within her. So she had painstakingly focused on the deep cleansing of her soul, she had worked hard to becomeasnaïveandstupidasherbrother,whomyoucould stop on the street and effortlessly relieve of the contents of his wallet; there’s nothing like being dumb to allow you to observeothersmoreclearly.Thatwashowshetestedouttheir principles, principles that are easy to forget when interacting with people like us, the simple, the wet behind the ears.

*

And then, in that calm period without any upsets, the once again narrow waist of the sixth figurine emerged:

A continuity assistant on a national film. She carried a hidden camera. And the actors couldn’t pose at their best angle,theonetheyoffereduptotheDirector:thatnewpanoramic shot revealed the lifts in the shoes of the short hero, themonster’szipper,andthegorgeousactressrewritingher script instead of being rescued. The only interest she might have had in filming that reverse angle wasn’t about settling scores with anyone, nor fame—these days only money can save you and art offers little of that—but because she knew that the “off-camera” perspective fascinated many people, who feared the monster, admired the hero and waited fora rescue that never came. She thought that it was precisely when things get uncomfortable or can’t be shown that something interesting comes to light. That is the point of no return,thepointthatmustbereached,thepointyoureach aftercrossingtheborderofwhathasalreadybeensaid,what has already been seen. It’s cold outthere.

Perseveringandforgingaheadtotheblindspotcompletely surrounded by whiteness, the point from which you can see nothing and you don’t know where to go, from thatmoment on, it is important to take measures, demarcate, and, evenif just fumbling around in the dark, to correctly identify the origin and direction of thefootprints.

It was by following that trail that I found, in the snow, much further on, the smallest figurine in the set, the one that isn’t hollow but solid, the matrix whose expansion had generated the rest of the figurines and situations.